


Face the Strange

by trickybonmot



Series: Omegaverse Serial Secondary Sex Change AU [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Allosexual Sherlock, Alpha John, Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Alpha, Alpha/Omega, Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Bottom John, Bottom Sherlock, But only sort of Virgin John and only sort of Heat, Domestic, First Time, Fisting, Frottage, Knotting, M/M, Magical Realism, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Orgasms, No mpreg, Omega John, Omega Sherlock, Omega/Omega, Omegaverse Jargon, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Serial Secondary Sex Change AU, Top John, Top Sherlock, Virgin John, negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 11:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3247949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickybonmot/pseuds/trickybonmot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time he and John Watson had sex, they were both equipped as Alphas.  Sherlock would have planned it that way, if he could have, but in the end he let fate decide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Face the Strange

**Author's Note:**

> So, this happened. I won't bore you with the long story of how and why, but I regret absolutely nothing!
> 
> Many thanks to airynothing for beta reading.
> 
> In case you have come upon this fic not knowing what omegaverse is, I suggest you read the [Fanlore entry on omegaverse](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Omegaverse). To the extent that there are existing conventions, I have not quite followed them exactly here, but it might be helpful to know where I'm starting from.

On the morning of July 8th, 1995, the citizens of Earth awoke to find that their lives had changed forever. Nobody knew what had caused the Change. Theories were rampant, of course: God, the Devil, an alien ray, a mischievous angel, industrial pollutants, radiation, tsetse flies. The cause was unknown. Only the symptom was clear: when you went to bed each night, you could not predict whether you would wake up with Alpha or Omega genitalia.

The initial reaction was, of course, chaotic. There were suicides, homicides, and riots on the first day, with demonstrations, mass conversions, and a few minor wars taking place over the ensuing months. Governments the whole world over spent years contorting themselves into new shapes to accommodate the new reality. Even a decade on, sexual legislation caused a monumental row in Parliament, which culminated in a female MP whipping out her _clitoris majoris_ and telling all the Tories to suck it. Among the social changes, many were positive. The legislators of the US and Europe, most of whom were born Alphas, were quick to divert funding to reproductive research, and the first dual-effective contraceptive implant came onto the market within ten years, virtually eliminating unwanted pregnancies in the developed world.

It was harder on the older people. Having spent years with one thing between your legs, it was naturally disconcerting to suddenly have to get used to the opposite scenario. Everyone thought it would wreak havoc on the children (there were still children; Omegas still ovulated, and if you got pregnant, your shape would stabilize until the baby was born), but, in fact, they took it easily in stride. By 2012, the burgeoning generation of post-Change teenagers was well on their way to creating a culture in which people’s sexual organs were considered irrelevant to their identities. 

Between the old and the young generation were those few on the cusp: those born and raised with the expectation of a correspondence between body and identity, but whose sexual awakening had taken place within the context of the Change. In the new parlance of youth culture, they became known somewhat disparagingly as the Last Alphas and Last Omegas, the last generation to identify with one genitotype or the other. Sherlock Holmes was one of these; born and raised with an Alpha identity, his first orgasm had been the product of a hesitant, awestruck wank on the very first morning of the change. Driven more by curiosity than arousal, he slipped his fingers into newfound slickness and discovered sensations more subtle and more compelling than any he had so far known. He felt, at the time, that he’d been given a rare and mysterious privilege, and was disappointed later that day to find out that the phenomenon was not limited to him alone.

The first time he and John Watson had sex, they were both equipped as Alphas. Sherlock would have planned it that way, if he could have; John was several years older, and from his behavior, Sherlock gathered that he was more attached to his natal identity than Sherlock was. Although John always favored the boxier, body-enlarging styles of Alpha clothing, Sherlock could always tell what he was sporting by his scent, so it would not be difficult to plan his advance for a day when, he supposed, John would be more comfortable. He had actually debated for quite some time which way John would prefer him, as well, but in the end, he let fate decide. 

It took a long time for the pieces to fall into place. Sherlock declared himself married to his work, and John dated a series of women. As it gradually became apparent that John was really very interesting indeed, Sherlock often replayed their conversation at Angelo’s in his mind and asked himself what on earth had possessed him to use that particular phrasing, that precise metaphor for intense dedication and sexual chastity. Chaste, he most certainly was not, and if he couldn’t usually be bothered to put up with the tedium of other people to achieve sexual gratification, that didn’t mean he didn’t desire it, and it certainly didn’t mean that he wouldn’t be happy to take up with the right partner if one should happen to fall into his lap. Which, as it turned out, one had, in the person of John Watson. And not just one— _the_ one, one than whom he could not have asked for a better. 

Unfortunately, that One had ambiguously flirted with him, got “REJECTED” stamped on his face in big, red letters, and quietly consigned himself to the extensive ranks of People Sherlock Did Not Feel That Way About, without any great show of regret. Sherlock was not even completely sure that John _had_ flirted with him or even actually knew he had been rejected, which would make it more than a bit awkward to try to invite him back from the rubbish heap in which he might not even know he was floundering.

But then, fate—or, more factually, the perverse sexual habits of a jewel thief—did, at last, intervene. 

They were in a closet together. It was a bedroom closet, with louvered doors, in which they’d been obliged to hide when the owner of the flat they’d been investigating returned home unexpectedly. That person, an Alpha-identified male suspected of stealing a valuable gemstone, dropped his briefcase on a chair and immediately began removing his clothes while Sherlock and John watched him through the slats of the door. He took off his tie, jacket, shirt, vest, trousers, pants, and…ah. The straps around his thighs looked suspiciously like the harness for a remote-controlled wearable vibrator. This, indeed, they proved to be, as he unclipped the harness and delicately withdrew the toy from his rectum. He stretched a bit, loosening his neck with an audible pop, then opened his bedside drawer and took out a large black silicone dildo in the shape of an Alpha cock. 

At this point, John and Sherlock carried out a conversation in facial gestures. John conveyed incredulous amusement. Sherlock, the same. John indicated that he would like to tactfully burst into the room and put a stop to the proceedings. Sherlock objected strenuously, on the grounds that the case would be ruined if they were caught. John pointed out that this would mean loitering among the blazers while their suspect brought himself off. Sherlock reasserted the primacy of the work. John reluctantly acquiesced.

So, they loitered. In retrospect, there was no reason for them to watch the suspect’s actions; they could just as well have averted their eyes and saved themselves some awkwardness. However, this did not occur to them at the time, and they both watched in hypnotic fascination, peering through the narrow gaps between the slats as the (admittedly rather fit) jewel thief crouched on his mattress and got on with his business. The muscles of his tanned thighs flexed as he lowered himself down onto the large, thick toy. He must be quite remarkably wet to accommodate such a thing. Sherlock’s own body—currently also Omega-configured—gave a sympathetic twinge. He bit his lip, willing himself to stay calm. The jewel thief gave a grunt as the toy slid in up to the knot.

Sherlock held perfectly still, and behind his right shoulder, John did the same. Sherlock could hear him breathing through his nose, and his scent had gotten stronger, both signs of arousal. The purpose of the nose-breathing in Alphas was to maximize the experience of one’s partner’s scent, and at this moment he must be getting a nose full of Sherlock, so he must know that Sherlock was far from immune to this spectacle. Time seemed to crawl by as their quarry pleasured himself, the occasional small whine or gasp escaping his lips. When he finally got the knot inside himself, he let out a low moan. Simultaneously, Sherlock felt a warm pressure against the back of his shoulder. John’s forehead. John inhaled deeply over and over again, taking in lungfuls of Sherlock’s pheromones. The scent of excited Alpha was so overwhelming that Sherlock closed his eyes and quite forgot what was in front of him.

Once the jewel thief had climaxed, he promptly fell asleep, and they were able to sneak out of the room. They got a cab home together.

“Well,” said John, in an obvious effort to relieve the tension between them, “I know one place he _isn’t_ hiding the jewels.” Sherlock laughed.

The atmosphere in 221 B was different, after that. A pair of unasked questions had been answered, and they were both aware of it. John now knew that Sherlock was capable of sexual feelings. Sherlock now knew that John was capable of sexual feelings toward _him_. The looks they exchanged were more charged with meaning. When they danced around each other in their living space, it felt more like a part of some larger ritual. 

It was on a warm Sunday afternoon that the thing which had been building palpably between them finally crystalized. Sherlock slept very late, recovering from a days-long case which had culminated the night before. He showered and wrapped himself in a dressing gown, then wandered out into the kitchen to drink the cold cup of tea John had left for him on the worktop. John himself was nowhere to be seen, and a quick glance into the echoingly empty cupboards suggested that he had probably gone in search of food, which was just as well, since Sherlock was hungry. He took his laptop and his cup of tea and installed himself on the sofa.

He must have been more tired than he thought, because he soon curled up on his side and dozed off. The sound of John coming in woke him, and with it came the realization that his dressing gown had come untied and was displaying most of his front to the room. He heard John’s footsteps pause when he caught sight of him. Sherlock opened his eyes to find John simply staring, a shopping bag dangling forgotten from one hand. He could have played the situation any number of ways, but John’s look of frank desire gave him courage. Meeting John’s eyes, he stretched, letting the other side of his robe fall back to reveal his leg and groin. His hips wanted to cant backward, and he let them, trailing his fingers across his own skin as he looked up at John through his lashes. 

John set the bag down gently on the floor, not taking his eyes from Sherlock’s. He stepped forward, expression serious, and laid his hand on Sherlock’s hip. Even through that minimal contact, Sherlock could sense that John’s outward calm was a thin facade. Sherlock shivered as John ran his hand slowly down the length of his leg, exploring every contour, caressing his heel and ankle before making the return journey back up, over his hip and his flank and his chest. His heart fluttered; he felt a bit like a racehorse being examined by a potential buyer, as John seemed to absorb every detail of his terrain. John was breathing fast through his nose. Come to that, so was Sherlock, and the smell of John, so close and so intent on him, was fueling his own quickly rising passion. At last John’s fingers skimmed up to caress his jaw, his lips; and then, because John was actually perfect, he slipped a finger into Sherlock’s mouth. Heat flashed across Sherlock’s skin at the sheer, bold filthiness of it, and he sighed and closed his lips to suck, knowing that John could see his face flushing and his cock thickening. John’s mouth opened silently and his eyes darkened as he watched Sherlock’s lips.

“God, Sherlock,” he breathed, and they were the first words to break the silence since he had walked in the door. 

Sherlock pulled back his lips into a little snarl, gently biting John’s knuckle. John licked his lips.

“Would you stand up, please?”

Sherlock took his offered hand and stood, the air feeling suddenly cool after the warmth of the sofa. But then John stepped in close to him, letting Sherlock feel the brush of his clothed body all along the length of his naked skin. 

“Shall I take my clothes off as well?” His voice was a warm purr against the skin below Sherlock’s ear. “Or do you like this?”

Sherlock had to clear his throat before answering. “No hurry,” he said.

John gave a low laugh, more felt than heard, and let his hands skim up Sherlock’s arms, raising gooseflesh.

“Did you plan this?” John asked. “That little show on the sofa, hmm? For me?”

“Ah. Perhaps, subconsciously,” Sherlock allowed. John’s fingernails scraped lightly down his chest, and it was getting harder to think, to speak.

“You knew I wanted you,” John said.

“Yes.” John’s hands were exploring his body more boldly now, one thumb pausing to brush over his nipple as his palms slid down and back around Sherlock’s ribs, then down to the small of his back. He was very close, now, his cheek against Sherlock’s chest.

“Are you just doing this to please me, then?” A tease. He could see how much Sherlock wanted this, surely.

“Ah. No.”

“Hn.” John kissed the skin beneath his mouth, then gave Sherlock’s nipple a small, sharp bite. Sherlock didn’t think he could remain standing much longer. “So I have to ask,” John said, between more licks and bites. “And I am going to have you right now, either way, because you are just too fucking pretty to pass up. But I want to know first: is this just for today? Or do you want to make this a regular thing?”

 _Have you_ , oh, God. “Regular,” Sherlock said around his clumsy tongue. “Frequent.” _Forever_ , he thought.

John let out a tiny breath (relief?), but his grin was feral. “In that case,” he said, “let’s go into your bedroom and find out what you’re made of.”

Sherlock felt like he was made mostly of electrified skin, but he let John herd him into the bedroom, grateful to be heading for a horizontal surface. John urged him back onto the bed, clambering over him so that he hardly had time to arrange himself, kissing him hungrily. Sherlock ended up half-propped against the headboard, John straddling his hips, John’s open mouth pinning him to the hard surface behind his head. His cock was hard in his trousers, rubbing against Sherlock’s own, rough and wonderful. John’s left hand pinned his right to the bed. With his free hand, Sherlock reached for John’s hair, his neck, his shirt, anything he could grab and hold. John smelled of sweat and smoke and leather, close and hot, all Alpha. John’s hand scrabbled against his waist and chest, kneading and scratching. Sherlock arched up against him, finding a rhythm, and John matched him. Maybe he could come like this, just rubbing off against John’s impervious clothing. He moaned at the thought, but of course it wasn’t really going to happen without some sort of stimulation to his knot.

As though reading his mind, John released his mouth to move downward. Firm fingers gripped his shaft, expertly finding the pulse point that made his knot surge to full hardness. John gave a grunt of what sounded like satisfaction, and then his mouth was there. He kissed Sherlock’s knot with warm pressure, at the same time slicking his palm with the moisture leaking from the tip. Sherlock groaned and sank into the mattress. Then John licked up the shaft and carefully fitted his lips over the broad head of Sherlock’s cock.

“John,” Sherlock gasped. Hearing him, John snaked his free hand up to grab Sherlock’s, pinning it to the sheet as his forearm took his weight. Then John proceeded to take him apart piece by piece, clever tongue flicking against Sherlock’s frenulum while his hand worked the shaft and knot in flawless cadence, slickened with spit and Sherlock’s juices. He brought Sherlock to the point of trembling ecstasy, then pulled back suddenly. Sherlock watched, breathless, as John reared up to quickly strip out of his shirt, then opened his flies. He hitched his trousers down just far enough to pull out his cock, which was splendidly thick, the tip gleaming with wetness. He gave it a few fast strokes, breath heavy as he met Sherlock’s eyes.

“Let me,” Sherlock said. He took hold of John’s hip, pulling him close so that he could lean forward to taste the bead of moisture welling from the slit. John hissed an indrawn breath, bracing his weight against the headboard, and Sherlock used his hands to urge him a few more inches forward, so that he could lean back and let John thrust.

One couldn’t do this too deeply with an Alpha cock, of course, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t perfectly delightful. John was careful without coddling, and Sherlock let his mouth be filled with the thick heat of him. He reached up to encircle John’s girth with his fingers, and John growled unconsciously, his hand finding a resting place in Sherlock’s hair. That grip, and John’s bare torso above him, and John’s unsteady breath, and the roughness of jeans against his knuckles when he stroked him to the root—it was almost enough to finish what John had begun. A single stroke would have done it, but with John positioned as he was, there was no way for Sherlock to take hold of himself. He could only squirm, aching. At last it was too much, and he turned his face away from John’s cock.

“God, I’m—“ His voice was rough. “I need—“

But John was already moving, back and down. With a rough tug, he got Sherlock lying flat on the mattress, spreading his knees without ceremony and lowering himself between them. The shock of so much bare, hot skin meeting his own all at once made Sherlock gasp; John’s cock beside his own was slick and hard. Sherlock found his rhythm at once, thrusting hard up against the welcoming pressure of John’s pelvic bone, the soft friction of his belly, the wet, silken, iron-hard heat of his cock. Sherlock groaned aloud.

 _”Yes,”_ John said. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back to hold him in place, and Sherlock was overwhelmed, shuddering and shuddering as he came. John gave a bitten-off cry and followed, face pressed hard below Sherlock’s collarbone as he spent himself in the close, hot space between their bodies.

Some time later, John pulled away with a groan. His hair stuck up in sweat-matted tufts, and Sherlock suppressed an irrational urge to smooth them down. 

“Christ,” John moaned, looking down. “That is the biggest load of spunk I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Hmm. Should I take that as a compliment? Or do you mean—oh.”

John smiled, and tugged at one of Sherlock’s curls with his cleaner hand. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve only been with women. Well, since the change, anyway. There were a couple of Omega boys, before.”

“And Alpha women don’t make quite as much of a mess.”

“Genius,” John said. He was still smiling, a sort of drugged, hazy smile that Sherlock felt he could easily get used to.

“Let’s take a shower,” John said. “And then eat something. I bought some stuff. You hungry?”

“Starving.”

After lunch, Sherlock felt tired. He announced that he was going for a nap with a half-formed hope that John might offer to come along, but John waved his tea mug dismissively, nose buried in a newspaper. Sherlock left his bedroom door open a crack, just in case.

***

Sherlock woke to twilight, and the Alpha smell of John, and a ticklish sensation at the nape of his neck.

Oh. It was John, kissing him. Waking him with kisses. That was quite all right.

“Hey,” John said, warm and quiet and close to Sherlock’s ear. He had climbed into bed with Sherlock, after all. Sherlock smiled, but John couldn’t see it, probably. 

“Hello, John,” he said.

John cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you’d like to have another go?”

Sherlock began to roll over, preparing a quip about John’s powers of seduction, but as he shifted, something made itself known to him, and it was distracting enough to disrupt his thoughts. John must have noticed at the same time, because he inhaled quickly through his nose, and grew still.

“That is, if you still—“ he said. “If you don’t mind—“

“Mind what?” Sherlock asked, perplexed. “You think I don’t want to have sex as an Omega?”

John’s ears turned a charming shade of pink. “Well, I’d understand if you didn’t, anyway.”

“For heaven’s sake, why?“

“Never mind,” John said. He shifted closer, let his lips brush against Sherlock’s. “If you like it,” he murmured, “I like it.”

Up close like this, John smelled deep and earthy, like shelter. Funny, that thought would never have occurred to him a few hours ago. That suggested that the Change took place on a neurochemical level as well, not just a physical one. There might be a paper in that, which he would have to think about further just as soon as his own neurochemistry recovered from the intoxication of John’s proximity, and the hot, tantalizing firmness of a semi-hard cock brushing against his thigh…

“Actually,” Sherlock said, “it’s my favorite.”

“All right, then.” John’s lips curled into a smile against his own.

Their antics earlier had taken the edge off of Sherlock’s sensitivity, and that effect, curiously, had not dissipated with the change in his physiology. A loose-limbed slowness crept over him as John’s warm body settled close, a welcome companion in his blanket nest. John had stripped to his boxers before getting into bed, and those were easily discarded. Sherlock was, naturally, already naked, so there was no barrier between him and the smooth, sliding perfection of John’s skin. 

For a while, they only kissed. John’s narrow mouth, with its border of faint stubble, proved to contain a remarkably agile tongue, and was a gateway to a gratifying assortment of quiet gasps and hums. John’s hands were blunt and quite soft, consistent with his work as a doctor. Could John feel the callouses on Sherlock’s fingers, the roughened tips where he fingered the strings of his violin? He let them scrape lightly across John’s side, and John shivered. 

“You’re so amazing,” John murmured.

Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat. “Am I?” 

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” John said. “I’ve been telling you for ages.”

 _At crime scenes_ , Sherlock thought. This was different, surely. Wasn’t it?

But before he could form a response, John surged forward and kissed him hard, hands coming up to cradle Sherlock’s head as his tongue pressed deep. Some of his urgency bled over into Sherlock’s slow bones at last, and he found himself gripping John’s hips, pulling him closer.

 _”God,”_ John said breathlessly, releasing his lips. “I just— _Sherlock._ ” John’s tongue delved into his mouth again. Sherlock’s groin throbbed, and he knew he was wet. He hadn’t been properly knotted in simply ages. He lifted his knee, inviting John between his thighs, and John obliged him. 

“Sherlock are you—?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock huffed. The half-formed knot brushing close to his entrance was taking up most of his attention.

“Birth control. What do we need?”

“I’m on the implant, Christ, John, _please_.”

“Right.” And then John was rolling on top of him, pushing his legs wide, and, yes, _there_ , the first heavenly intrusion of the head, followed by the thick, stretching slide. The thickness of John’s burgeoning knot pressed for a moment against the resistance of his cincture, and then he was fully, sumptuously impaled. 

“God, the noises you make,” John said, quivering against him. He thrust shallowly in and out, working his knot against Sherlock’s entrance, and Sherlock made more of the noises he hadn’t even been aware of, little desperate gasping moans. 

“You’re _so_ good, Sherlock, fuck—“ He pulled out further and rammed back in, and Sherlock clung to him with legs and arms, whimpering into John’s shoulder. He loved this, loved motion, but in only a few short moments, John’s knot would swell to the point where he could no longer withdraw.

“Fuck me,” Sherlock rasped. “Don’t stop, John, not until you have to.”

With a low moan, John braced himself and began thrusting in earnest, a fluid, pistoning motion that sent lightning along Sherlock’s nerves and stoked a deep, melting heat in his center. John’s eyes were screwed shut in concentration as he resisted the urge to sink in deep and stay there. Sherlock let go of John’s shoulders to hold his knees open, and John rewarded his pliancy with a hard, sucking bite to his neck. A shock of heat pierced him, a spasm that made his body clench. John gasped aloud at the sensation and was suddenly still, yearning hard against him. His knot thrummed against the sensitized nerves in Sherlock’s _cubiculum nodi_ , and that, on top of all that had come before, was nearly enough to send him crashing over the edge.

“God, you’re gorgeous like this,” John breathed. “I want you to come, Sherlock. Come for me.”

He moved again, but his knot was so full now that he could barely thrust at all, and it was that knowledge, more than anything, that was Sherlock’s undoing. He arched, racked with impossible sweetness, each spasm clutching harder at John’s unyielding flesh until he was replete, surfeited, gorged and glutted. He was still coming down, almost groggy with it, when he opened his eyes and found John staring back at him with a look of such intensity that Sherlock would certainly have blushed if his cheeks weren’t already flaming. Then John was kissing him, but the kiss fell apart as John began to lose control. He gave a ragged cry, and then a series of shocking, flawless pulses made Sherlock writhe again and whimper and quake with sensitivity through the long fugue of John’s climax. 

When it ended, John collapsed against him, moaning a little with each breath. Sherlock nuzzled his face in John’s damp hair. It would be some minutes before John’s knot subsided enough to allow them to separate, and Sherlock knew from experience that he would be a little addled until then. When his own breathing had settled, Sherlock shifted, rolling so that they both lay on their sides. John curled against him a few moments more, then raised his face to kiss him, long and slow and sweet. How could he ever embrace this man hard enough, long enough? It seemed impossible.

This time, John slept. Mysteriously energized, Sherlock lay awake for a while, watching him, then slipped out of bed to call for takeout Chinese. John would be hungry when he woke up.

The rest of the evening passed quietly. John was indeed hungry, and ate happily, and encouraged Sherlock to eat as well, which he did, a little, and not only out of a desire to please. John drew a bath, and they got into it together, and then went to bed in John’s room, where the sheets were still clean and the bed was small, so that they had to sleep clasped together like a pair of hands. Neither of them minded in the least.

***

Sherlock woke to morning sunlight prying its way past the blinds, and to John still sleeping against his chest. Was it only yesterday that this had begun? So much seemed to have happened. He shifted to bury his nose in John’s hair (he was such a convenient height for that, and Sherlock hadn’t even had a chance to try it standing up yet). By the smell, John had changed in the night, from Alpha to Omega. It was a pity, in a way, since John’s knot was really quite marvelous, but there’d be plenty of time to enjoy that later. For now, Sherlock was still Omega, too, which would cut off some avenues of exploration while opening others. He had a few ideas for today.

Still drowsy, he let his hand wander low over John’s belly. He was warm, his skin soft, lightly furred with tawny hair below the navel. What would John’s cock be like now? It was a myth that Omega cocks were sexually useless. They were smaller, and had no knot, but they could achieve erection and be stimulated to a different sort of orgasm, albeit an infertile one. Sherlock mused over what his fingers were not quite brushing against: its color, its girth, the way the head would look emerging from the foreskin—

John woke against him, stirred a little, and then froze.

“Oh,” he said. “Fuck.”

Something came to Sherlock from the day before. _I’d understand if you didn’t,_ John had said. 

Oh. Fuck.

Sherlock moved his hand to less invasive territory.

“Sorry,” John said.

“What for?” Sherlock asked. He tried not to make it sound as though he had been too much looking forward to anything in particular.

“You know what,” John said, rolling over. 

“You don’t want to have sex as an Omega.”

John gave a rueful twist of his lips, but said nothing.

“Why?”

John shrugged. “Never have. Seems weird.”

“You have trust issues,” Sherlock guessed. 

“Sherlock.”

“You’re worried it would make you too vulnerable.”

_”Sherlock.”_

“Sorry.” 

“Anyway,” John said, “I’ve been on an every-other-day sort of schedule, so if that goes on, I should be ship-shape tomorrow. Um. If that’s okay?”

“There’s no schedule, John, it’s random chance every day. But of course it’s all right. Whatever you need.” He kissed John’s forehead to show that he meant it.

***

The next morning, John was still not “ship-shape”. They’d changed the sheets and slept in Sherlock’s bed. John had been funny about it at first; he offered to go and sleep in his own room. Whatever face Sherlock made in response to that, John had taken one look at it and changed his mind. Then they’d ended up kissing on the sofa until quite late, with all their clothes on like a pair of fifth-formers. It left Sherlock wet and aching in a way that was not entirely unpleasant. The warmth and aroma of John in his bed afterward, combined with the echoes of banked desire, made him feel quiet and secure, curiously unhurried. It would all come right in the end.

The night after that, Sherlock was wakened by the sensation of John moving lethargically against him. John’s cock was hard and rubbing against his hip. John was still asleep. They were both still Omega. 

“John?” Sherlock whispered. The scent of arousal surrounded him, whether his or John’s he couldn’t be sure. John gave a low, whimpering cry, then lay still.

In the morning, he woke up alone. He sulked a little, but decided to get up when he smelled breakfast. 

John greeted him with a serious expression, wordlessly shoving a plate and cup in his direction. Sherlock ate while he waited for John to talk.

“So,” John said at last. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Obviously.”

“Oh shut it, would you? This is hard.” He took a breath. “Sherlock, you mean a lot to me.” Sherlock could not suppress a probably very silly-looking smile, but John went on, looking steadfastly down at his plate. “And I do trust you, and I guess, I think I could…try.”

“Try having sex as an Omega?”

“Sherlock, Jesus.” John’s ears turned red again. Sherlock sighed. 

“Are you sure, John? We could…we could go on as we are. I don’t mind it.”

John glanced up at him briefly with a small smile, then looked down again. “I guess, the truth is, we went so long _not_ doing this…not doing anything. It just seems stupid to waste any more time. I guess I always knew I’d do it eventually, and so, why not now? And now I’m talking too much. And what I’m really trying to say is: can we go to bed? Right now?”

Sherlock had finished his egg and his coffee. He put down his cup, stood up, and offered John his hand. John rose and put his hand in Sherlock’s. Then Sherlock pulled him close and spoke in his ear.

“John, can I tell you something?”

John nodded.

“I’m really very good at this.”

John laughed, and let Sherlock lead him away.

Sherlock was only wearing his dressing gown again. John’s hands slipped inside it while Sherlock let his own hands roam over John’s clothed body. He had dressed completely, in trousers, pants, button-down, vest, and socks, even though it was first thing in the morning and he wasn’t planning to leave the flat. Vulnerability, again. Oh, John. 

“What would you like to do?” Sherlock asked.

John laughed nervously. “Honestly?” he said. “I haven’t even thought about it. If you…if there’s a certain way that you like it—“

“I’d like to use my hand on you,” Sherlock said. “Inside you. Is that all right?”

John let out a shaky breath before answering. “I think so,” he said. 

“We’ll go slowly.” 

John nodded, swallowing hard, then began to undo his shirt buttons with an air of determination. Sherlock took hold of his hands, stopping him, and bent to kiss his mouth.

“Slowly,” he said. He pulled John’s hands toward him, placing them against his chest. Understanding the invitation, John caressed him, sliding his hands across Sherlock’s pectorals and down his sides. Sherlock nuzzled into the warm angle of John’s neck and shoulder. He smelled bright and faintly resinous, like green branches. While one of John’s hands rested at the small of his back, the other skimmed around the front of his hip to palm Sherlock’s rapidly hardening cock. Even that slight friction was enough to make him gasp, so John grew bolder, stroking him gently, kissing his chest. Sherlock shrugged out of his dressing gown, letting it fall to the floor.

“Would you lie down, John?”

When John was comfortably settled on the bed, still fully clothed, Sherlock straddled him on all fours. John gave him a little smile, tongue between teeth. His left hand came up to skim ticklishly over Sherlock’s flank, while his right reached down to grasp Sherlock’s cock again.

“Touch me,” Sherlock murmured in John’s ear. “Feel how wet I am.”

John’s hand slid down over Sherlock’s buttock, slipping in slickness as it neared his center. When the first finger breached him, John hissed appreciatively. He added a second, and began slowly fucking Sherlock’s hole.

“God, you’re hot inside,” John breathed. “Can you come like this?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not like this, no.” It was hard to think. “But I do…mm…like it.”

“I can’t wait to fuck you properly again.”

“You won’t be saying that when I’m through with you.”

“No?”

“No. You’ll be saying ‘cor, I can’t wait for Sherlock to have another go at my arse, I hope my useless knot never comes back.’”

John gave a skeptical sort of guffaw, then gave in to giggles as Sherlock nuzzled his neck. He got his breath back at last, and squirmed. 

“Oof, Sherlock, can you move? I want to take my clothes off.”

Sherlock dismounted promptly and took up a lounging pose nearby, the better to provide an attentive audience for John’s businesslike disrobing. He stroked a bit of his own lubrication onto his cock as he watched. He’d always liked John’s body, and he still liked it now, with its several scars, its compact (though no longer quite lean) physique, and its average-sized, charmingly ruddy, decidedly interested Omega cock. 

When John had finished, he lay back again, inviting Sherlock to resume his position. Now, when Sherlock mounted him, everything was warm skin and silky friction. He rutted his slickened cock in the hollow of John’s hip, and John mouthed his shoulder appreciatively. This was, of course, very nice, but if they finished like this, his earlier boasting would scarcely have been justified. When John was on-edge and shivering, Sherlock pulled back to crouch between his knees. He stroked his knuckles up the insides of John’s thighs. John bit his lip, but he spread his knees wider.

The juncture of his thighs was slick. Sherlock took up some of the moisture and spread it with his thumb at the hind root of John’s cock, stimulating his prostate from the outside, which would in turn stimulate his muscles to relax. He kept his eyes fixed on John’s face. John’s eyes were closed at the moment, incisors still just indenting his lower lip. What would soothe him? Sherlock bent to lick at John’s cock, then took it into his mouth for a few gentle sucks. It jumped appreciatively against his palate, and John’s mouth opened, eyebrows drawing together slightly. Better.

Slow, slow. Sherlock let his stroking thumb dip down to John’s entrance, just testing the resistance of the crinkled flesh. It would admit him, certainly, but he held back, circling with the pad of his thumb, using just enough pressure to suggest to the nerves that he might, eventually, like to come inside.

John’s breathing changed fractionally, and some undetected tension eased out of his pelvic floor, letting his thighs drift ever so slightly further apart. Sherlock pushed his thumb slowly inside.

John was deliciously hot inside, and still tight. He gasped and tensed a little at Sherlock’s intrusion, but Sherlock was ready for that. Holding his thumb quite still, he resumed sucking John’s cock. John gave a low groan, and Sherlock flexed his thumb gently, aiming for the nerve bundles that would begin to open the _cubiculum nodi_ , which, as luck would have it, were situated quite near the prostate. 

“Christ,” John breathed. He held very still, brows knitted. “That’s…rather different. Oh.”

Sherlock smiled to himself around John’s cock. Steadily, he rotated his thumb, strumming across the dense nerve endings that had evolved to be stimulated by an Alpha’s knot. In this semi-receptive state, the sensation would be almost confusing, a tantalizing, disjoint sparking.

“Oh,” John said again, opening his eyes. “Is that the cubicular response?”

Sherlock had to free up his mouth to answer. “Just the start of it,” he said. He repeated the maneuver, and John’s eyes closed again. He squirmed a little—but toward Sherlock’s hand, not away from it. Sherlock obliged him with deeper pressure. John’s tongue emerged briefly to touch his lower lip.

“Would it be easier if I got on my front?” he asked.

“Considerably.”

Sherlock withdrew his thumb so that John could turn over. At Sherlock’s suggestion, he put a pillow under his hips, giving a faint, nervous exhale as he assumed the new position. 

Sherlock didn’t give him time to worry—and anyway, it wasn’t as though he could keep his hands off of John’s tenderly exposed backside for long. He trailed his fingertips up John’s thighs, palmed his buttocks, then let John feel his thumbs on either side of his cleft. John didn’t flinch away, so he applied gentle pressure, pulling John open, exposing his slick and sensitive hole. He could hear John’s breathing, a little quick, but steady. He’d been afraid of this act, had never let anyone see him like this before, had chosen to let Sherlock be the first. As knowledge went, that was heady stuff indeed, and headier still was the scent rising from John’s flesh. It seemed to take Sherlock by the brainstem. Conscious thought buzzed away into nothingness as he bent to taste. John’s whole body twitched when Sherlock’s tongue touched him, and he inhaled sharply. Sherlock licked broadly across the crinkled tissue, then sharpened his tongue for some detail work, and when John exhaled, it was on a low, breathy moan. 

“ _God_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock let the tip of his tongue press into John’s body, tasting his arousal. John was opening already, his tension unwinding, and it was the work of a moment for Sherlock to slip two fingers in where his tongue had just been. In the midmorning light, he could observe close up the way John’s entrance stretched around his knuckles, pulled into a gentle oblong. He scissored his fingers, and John’s hips twitched searchingly. 

“Is this all right?” Sherlock asked.

 _”God,_ ” John said again.

“Is that a yes?”

_”Yes.”_

Sherlock reflected. He _could_ add a third finger…but he had promised to go slowly. Better, probably, to pause here. He settled into a more comfortable crouch, kissing the curve of John’s hip as he leisurely worked his fingers in and out, rotating his hand gradually so that John would be stimulated everywhere, all around the rim and the interior, the prostate and the burgeoning walls of the _cubiculum_. John breathed shallowly, his hips thrusting in a way that was probably unconscious. Brave John. Sherlock smiled.

Virginity. It was not something Sherlock had ever thought much about. It was ridiculous to value it as a commodity, something that could be preserved or given or lost, something that defined a person. It was also ridiculous to think of John as a virgin, given all that he had witnessed even just in the past few days. And yet, Sherlock could not suppress a surge of stupid pride; John had not done this before. In this body, he was innocent. Sherlock was helping him explore himself, teaching him, marking him. With all his future lovers—if he had any, and Sherlock felt a surge of reaction against the idea—this would be part of his foundation. Sherlock was building himself into the brick and mortar of John.

“God, Sherlock, please, you’re killing me,” John groaned, snapping Sherlock’s attention back to the present moment. 

His need was obvious. “More?” Sherlock asked.

“Please.”

Sherlock withdrew far enough to add a third finger, and, soon after, a fourth.

“This will be awkward for a moment,” he warned. “But you’re doing very well.”

John’s reply was muffled and wordless, and fell apart anyway when Sherlock pressed his fingers deeper, pushing in past the third knuckle at last, so that John’s tightness was cinched around his metacarpals, above the thumb. Compared to an Alpha cock, it was not an unreasonable stretch, but the shape was tricky. John would be much more comfortable after Sherlock got his thumb in, but that would require a bit more coaxing.

“God,” John panted, “you really meant your _hand_ , didn’t you?”

Oh. Sherlock froze. Perhaps that had been a trifle ambiguous. “Yes. Sorry. Still all right?”

John huffed a laugh. “It’s fucking brilliant.”

Sherlock resumed moving, a slow flex and thrust of his fingers. “Short of using a toy, I’ve found it’s by far the most efficient way to satisfy an Omega in the absence of a knot.”

Sherlock felt John’s abdominal muscles tense as he laughed again. “Yeah, it’s pretty fucking efficient, I’d say. God, your fucking _fingers_.”

“You’ve invoked the almighty quite a few times in the last several minutes.”

“So?”

“Just making an observation.”

“Oh, quit observing and just…fucking…do that again. _Ah._ Guh… _shit_ , that is. Fucking. Crazy.”

“You’re also—“ Sherlock found he had to pause and catch his breath. “You’re also swearing quite a lot.”

John didn’t answer. He was quivering, thighs tense, toes dug into the sheets. His head, resting on his crossed arms, was turned to the side so that Sherlock could see the way his eyes were squeezed shut in concentration. And no wonder, with Sherlock’s hand half buried in the tight heat of his arse. Sherlock stroked the root of John’s cock gently with his thumb. John whimpered.

“Can you take a bit more?”

John nodded fractionally. “Yeah. Yes. Do it.”

Sherlock rested his forehead on John’s hip a moment to collect himself. Then he eased the tip of his thumb in alongside the base of his fingers, trying to keep his palm as compact as possible. When he began to push, John whimpered, but his flesh was slick and yielding. At last the thumb joint slid past the constriction. 

“Ah!” John cried. His hips jerked, and Sherlock felt the muscles of his pelvic floor spasm, pulling his hand in up to the wrist.

“God, _god_ ,” John was moaning. “Oh my god.”

Sherlock had intended to say something explanatory here, about how his hand would simulate the sensation of fullness provided by a knot, but he found himself quite unable to form the words. Instead he flexed his palm, thickening it, and John writhed, clenching and pushing backward. Sherlock met him with the strength of his arm, using his other hand to brace against John’s buttock. John’s back was sheened with sweat; the hair at his nape was damp with it. His eyebrows were drawn together, mouth open in unconscious bliss, moisture dripping down his thighs from the place where Sherlock pierced him. A haze seemed to come down over Sherlock’s vision, but he blinked against it. He still had a trick up his sleeve, if he could manage it, but it would take some concentration.

John spasmed, thrusting blindly. “God, Sherlock, please, I’m so close—“

“Hush, you’re doing really well,” Sherlock murmured. Carefully, he began folding his fingers, getting as close as he could to an actual fist in the close confines of John’s interior. John tensed even further, fairly vibrating with it, until at last Sherlock twisted his knuckles hard against the anterior wall.

“Oh!” John cried. “ _Oh_ ,” and he began to come, muscles spasming around Sherlock’s hand with crushing force, pulsing again and again as John gasped and panted against the sheet.

Sherlock relaxed his hand, but didn’t pull away.

“Want to go again?”

“Unh, what?”

“I can fool your body into responding as though to a second knot.”

“I…huh. Okay?”

Sherlock flexed his fist again, and John gave a bitten-off cry. He groaned, hips rolling, then cried out hoarsely as a second orgasm rocked him. Sherlock weathered the storm patiently, noting how John’s movements were more erratic now; the second time was always a trifle sharper. When it was over, John stilled, but he was edgy and breathless even yet.

“Can you take another?” Sherlock whispered.

John nodded fractionally, and Sherlock did it again, flexing his fingers a couple of times before hitting the spot once more. John whined and huffed and rutted, then collapsed, panting, all the fight gone out of him.

“You might have one more in you,” Sherlock offered, but John shook his head.

“Mercy,” he said. “Jesus. Fuck.”

“Are you all right?”

“Ohhh my God,” John groaned. His eyes were still closed, but he was smiling. “You are such a bloody showoff.”

“I have never claimed otherwise.”

“No, that’s true. God, I think I need you to get out of me.”

But Sherlock was already working on it. He narrowed his palm and carefully withdrew it; this was the most difficult part, as an Alpha’s knot would normally diminish in size before withdrawal. John hissed and squirmed a little, but in the end, the thing was accomplished. 

“I’ll just go to the loo and—“

A hand on his elbow stopped him. “Wait,” John said. He twisted partly upright and pulled Sherlock close for a slow and drowsy kiss. Sherlock had to balance on one hand, but John put both hands in his hair, steadying him.

At last John released him and put his face back on the pillow. 

Sherlock washed his hands and got a wet flannel, and when he came back, John was still lying on his front, eyes closed, breathing deeply. He twitched and hummed a little as Sherlock gently cleaned him. He was not quite finished when John reached back, plucked the flannel from his fingers, and tossed it unceremoniously to the floor. Then he grabbed Sherlock’s hand and used it to pull Sherlock up and over himself, donning him like a coat. Sherlock settled into position without complaint, and John rolled to lean back into him.

“I really want to do that to you next,” he said. “But first do you mind if I sleep for about a hundred years?”

“Not in the least. You were perfect.”

“You did all the work.”

“Then why are you so tired?”

“Hn.” John laughed, just a single dry chuckle, and then Sherlock felt his body twitch as he fell asleep.

John’s hair was soft against Sherlock’s cheek. The smell of him was mellow and calm, in harmony with the deep, grounding warmth in Sherlock’s belly and the heavy throb of blood in his groin. A hundred years of this would scarcely be enough.

***

Sherlock woke again in the early afternoon, still wrapped around a sleeping John, with a distinct throbbing in his…knot. Oh. Alpha again. He didn’t mind one way or the other, of course, but there was always the chance that John would find this threatening.

Which was a pity, because John smelled extremely nice. That was the reason for the throbbing. John’s smell had changed while Sherlock slept—or Sherlock’s nose had changed, but it seemed like more than that. John smelled warm and dark and delicate, like something Sherlock wanted to hoard and protect and sink down into and, just a little bit, to dominate, to _fuck_. A low growl escaped his throat as he allowed his teeth to close just ever so gently on the flesh of John’s shoulder.

Wait. Danger. He twisted free of John and got out of bed.

Outside the bedroom, the air was clearer, and he could think. What _was_ that?

When John emerged some time later, Sherlock was nearing the end of his internet research expedition.

“Sherlock?” John said. “I feel a bit—um—is everything all right?”

“Pseudo-estrus,” Sherlock said.

“Um. What about it?” 

“You’re in it, is what.” He offered John the laptop, but John waved it away.

“I know what it is, Sherlock. I’m a doctor, remember?” John moved unsteadily over to sit in his armchair. “It’s rare enough that people who get it usually freak out and go to A and E the first time it happens, so I’ve seen a few of them.” He took a deep breath, rubbing his hands nervously up and down his thighs. “Yeah, you’re right, that’s what it is. Shit.”

“You’re surprised.”

“It’s never happened to me before.”

A silence fell. Sherlock watched John vibrating in his chair, and envied him a little; so-called “heat” was a genetic atavism, with only about one in five hundred Omegas experiencing it. Sherlock had never been one of the lucky ones. 

“Did you figure it out based on smell?” John asked.

“Yes.”

“Do I…smell different?”

“Yes.”

“So do you.” He was breathing quickly, his pupils dilated. 

“What does it feel like?”

John bit off a laugh. “It feels like I have a fever, and like I want to lie down and have you fuck me seven ways from Sunday, is what it feels like.”

Sherlock swallowed. “That could be a plan.”

“Yeah it…yeah.” John’s eyes darted around the room, his thumb rubbing back and forth across his fingernails.

Should he offer to leave John alone, to deal with this new state of affairs on his own? Sherlock’s bottom dresser drawer was more than equipped to offer satisfaction to a lone Omega…not that that would make it any easier to be away from him.

John took a deep breath. “I want this,” he said. “I’m just afraid that once I get started, I’ll…I dunno…do something embarrassing. Lose control.”

“You’re afraid of looking desperate.”

“I’m afraid of _being_ desperate.”

Sherlock stood up slowly. Every inch closer to John intensified the irresistible smell of him, but he kept going, until he was standing a mere few feet in front of John, who had braced himself deep in his chair. He was almost panting, his forehead sheened with sweat.

“John,” Sherlock said slowly, “I assure you, I am entirely desperate.” He bent low over John, bracing himself on the arms of the chair. This close, John’s scent was utterly overwhelming. Sherlock’s mouth watered, and his cock swayed hard and heavy inside his loosely-tied dressing gown. He spoke quietly into the dark, warm space between them. “Please understand me. I may be Alpha now, and you Omega. But I am entirely in your power.”

John made a strangled sound. For one breathless moment, Sherlock was afraid he would push him away, but then John’s hands came up to grab his lapels, and John surged upward, bowling Sherlock over so that he just managed to catch himself as he fell over backwards. John scrambled on top of him, straddling him, clawing at the belt of his dressing gown.

“Sorry,” he said, but Sherlock pulled his head down for a hard kiss. John squirmed against him, the fabric of his boxers already damp where he was grinding mindlessly against Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock slid his hand under the waistband to sink two fingers into John, and found him shockingly, deliciously wet and open. John released Sherlock’s mouth with a little cry, and rutted back against Sherlock’s fingers.

“God, I want you,” he huffed.

“Get these _off_ ,” Sherlock growled. 

John disengaged just long enough to dispose of his pants, then resumed his position, breathing erratically. He reached back to grip Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock saw stars as John gave it a few slick rubs across his entrance. He was on the brink of begging for more when John finally braced his knees and pushed down onto it with a groan. There was hardly any resistance, and Sherlock sank in up to the hilt, his half-swollen knot pushing easily inside.

“John,” he moaned. “Christ, John.” He took hold of John’s hips, whether to still them or steer them or move them he couldn’t even be sure, but John took control; bracing his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, he began working himself sharply up and down on Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock met him stroke for stroke, barely noticing the hard floor or the roughness of the rug. He had envisioned his first time doing this with John as something slow and gentle, had imagined carefully introducing him to these pleasures, but all that was forgotten, now, as he lost himself in scent and heat. It was almost frustrating, being on his back, when what he really wanted was to flip John over and pin him and mark him, but somehow even the frustration fed his arousal. It was glorious to be ridden like this, defeated like this, used for his knot by his insatiable, dripping wet Omega lover. Struck by sudden inspiration, he let go of John’s hips to lay his hands palm-up on either side of his head. John noticed, because John was perfect, and took hold of Sherlock’s wrists with a wicked grin, pinning them hard against the floor. The twinge of pain made him gasp.

“Give it to me,” John leaned forward to growl in his ear. “Give me your knot, Sherlock, make me come, be good for me—“

And that was all it took; blood surged into his knot, so fast and hot it was almost painful, and John held suddenly still, eyes wide and fixed on Sherlock. Then he moved, fractionally, carefully; his eyes fluttered closed, and his hand shifted to grip Sherlock’s fingers. A harsh whine escaped his throat, then broke into a gasp, and Sherlock felt him begin to come. He thought for a moment that he might be able to last through John’s orgasm, perhaps flip him over—but then John bent low over him, moaning Sherlock’s name, and he was lost, consumed by fire, wordless cries wrung from his lips as John held him and rode him and took all he had to offer.

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock,” John panted, when it was over. His weight came down on Sherlock’s chest. “Can I just…god.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fucking amazing,” he said, still breathless, and then Sherlock felt his body shake as he laughed. “God, to think just yesterday I was scared to do this with you.”

“And you’re…okay with it? Now?”

“Now,” said John, nuzzling up under his jaw, “I’m trying to figure out the minimum decent amount of time before I can ask you to do that again. God. I want to have you on top next time, get the full effect.”

Sherlock’s response to that was something not unlike a growl. He got a good grip on John and, with a finesse born of his martial arts training, used John’s weight to flip them both over. The pressure this put on his still-seated knot made both of them gasp, but they remained joined as Sherlock deftly took the upper hand.

“Is this too soon?” he asked.

“No such thing,” John said. “I just didn’t think you’d be able to…ohh.”

He stopped talking when Sherlock began to move. His knot had diminished to the point where he could thrust again, but with the way John smelled, he had no doubt it would be back in short order. 

With John on his back, he could finally do this properly. He braced his knees up under John’s thighs and loosed the jesses on the last of his control, pounding deeply into yielding heat. 

“God, yes, fuck,” John moaned. His hands clawed at Sherlock’s back, leaving long, bright scratches. Sherlock sank his teeth into the muscle of John’s neck and sucked at his skin; John shouted. When Sherlock knotted him for the second time, he was almost too wrapped up in sweat and skin and scent to attend to John’s pleasure. But a change in the tenor of John’s quaking did make itself known to him, and he surfaced in a daze to kiss John’s pliant mouth as he shuddered through his climax, soundlessly this time, all his breath huffing out through his nose as his legs clutched Sherlock’s flanks.

Then Sherlock sat up, still crouched between John’s thighs, and took hold of John’s cock.

“Yes, do it,” John demanded, and Sherlock began to stroke him. Everything was already slick and messy; Sherlock had a spectacular view of John laid out before him, all blood-flushed and sweating, with a bite-mark on his neck. John clenched his jaw and twisted his head back and forth, hands flexing against the rug. Sherlock worked him fast and hard with his hand, thrusting his hips shallowly as John writhed on his knot, until finally John gave a loud moan and his thin Omega emission spilled over Sherlock’s fingers in three juicy pulses. Sherlock raised his hand to his mouth, licked it, and came, oblivious to everything but the taste and scent of John adorning his fingers. 

When he came back to the world, John was looking up at him. The look on his face was one that Sherlock had seen before: befuddled, but admiring. Fond. It was a fond face. He hadn’t ever really worked that out before.

“You’re a madman,” John said.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked. He was a little short of breath. Dizzy, in fact.

“No,” John said. “C’mere.” 

Sherlock let himself sink down onto John’s chest, minding his messy fingers didn’t get on Mrs. Hudson’s carpet. John stroked his hair and nuzzled him. He gave a sigh of deep contentment.

“Sherlock, when we switch again, I’m going to take such good care of you,” John murmured. 

“You always take care of me, John.”

John’s mouth found his, and they kissed for a while, warm and languid. It took some minutes for Sherlock’s feeling of lightheadedness to dissipate as his circulation returned to normal and his knot slowly receded. When they finally separated, Sherlock’s stomach gave an embarrassing growl.

“We’d better take a break,” John said. “Your toast and egg was a while ago.”

“Some calories might not go amiss,” Sherlock admitted. 

Sherlock was relieved that John didn’t suggest a shower. The intermingling of his own scent with John’s seemed to have only heightened the effect of John’s pheromones; his two rapid-fire orgasms had him fairly wrung out for the moment (And how many had John had today? Five?) but his readings on pseudo-estrus suggested that their state of heightened sexual desire and performance might last as long as three days. He might be ready to go again in a matter of hours, and he didn’t want any of the fragrance to wash away before then.

John found some ham and cheese and bread in the refrigerator, and set about making some sandwiches. Sherlock heated water for tea and made some inroads into a package of biscuits, to which John also helped himself once they had sat down.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” Sherlock said around a mouthful of sandwich. He swallowed. “Why are you only experiencing pseudo-estrus now? At your age?”

John shrugged. “It just happens that way sometimes. Nobody really knows why. Some people think it can arise due to biochemical compatibility between partners.”

“That sounds suspiciously sentimental.” 

John smiled. “Look, scoff if you want to, all I’m saying is, things can happen. It’s not medically well understood, but there have been sociological studies. People who start heats late in life tend to be involved with…um…” He broke off suddenly, blushing. Given everything that had happened, it probably wasn’t biology he was blushing about.

“Involved with…?” Sherlock prompted.

John coughed. “Involved with people they’ve been intensely in love with. For a long time.”

“Oh. But that doesn’t explain—“

“Yeah,” said John. “It does.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock. “Hm.” He felt a silly smile spreading over his face. John was wearing a matching one. Well then.

John cleared his throat. “So, um…done eating? Want to go back to bed? The real bed, that is, not the sitting room floor?”

“Nothing would delight me more.”

Within the cocoon of his duvet, Sherlock wrapped himself around his lover. Amazing, astonishing John, the true friend of his heart. John fitted perfectly against him, filling his hollow places and accommodating his sharp angles in ways that had nothing to do with the shape of his body. Content, he drifted, and began to doze.

John pinched him. “Hey! None of that,” he said. “Not until I have you at least one more time like this.”

“You don’t mind it, then? Being Omega?”

“It’s not so bad,” John admitted. “But I still like the other way.”

“So do I,” Sherlock said. He rolled, pinning John beneath him, letting him feel the evidence ( _solid_ evidence, Sherlock absolutely refused to think) that Sherlock’s refractory period was coming to a close. “In the mean time, will this do?”

John shivered, his pulse quickening. Sherlock, breathing through his nose, could smell his readiness. 

“Very nicely, thank you,” John said.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who might want to know, _cubiculum nodi_ is meant to mean "knot chamber".
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
